


Lineage

by SaintSayaka



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Distrust, Gen, Hurt, POV Second Person, Sad, Sad Fluff, is there such a thing as sad fluff, morgan just gets really fucked over okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6117277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintSayaka/pseuds/SaintSayaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Considering who his father was, Morgan didn't have a chance from the beginning.</p><p>But he doesn't know that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lineage

They won’t even look into your eye, no less speak your name.

Many are hesitant to come to your aid on the battlefield, perhaps only propelled by their fear of the tactician. While her place in the scheme of the war is no less devalued, somehow, being her son has changed her standing within the army community. Only the fearlessly loyal remain normal in their interactions with her - a strange axe wielder who consistently speaks in the third person and a womanizing archer. Even they occasionally have a hard time with meeting her gaze. As for the rest, they take her orders, and make small talk. But you can tell something that was there before is missing. And you are the cause. 

But by far, the worst is Chrom. He is not harsh to you, unlike a select few who only hold back due to pensions and loyalty to the crown (and regardless, they are fringe members of the main army, not of the elite like you). But Chrom’s eyes are the only ones besides your mother’s that meet your own - an uncomfortable feeling, as if he is waiting to tell you something but cannot put it into words. It does you no good to try to find him on off hours; he has always managed to evade you.

Chrom’s private Shepherds do not heckle you, but do not exactly take you in with open arms, either. Even the children whom you supposedly arrived with do not seem to invite you into their ranks. Lucina grabs the hilt of her sword particularly hard whenever you pass, evidently an old habit. It’s one of the small things you tend to notice about people. You’ve always been particularly good about noticing. For example, the various nicknames that people have whispered to their partners as you zip around camp, a virtual ghost, do not go unheard by you. “Hair as red as the Mad King’s,” one soldier breathes, his thick foreign accent almost clouding the words. An offhanded response, but one that warranted research - to little avail. He was apparently the recent king of neighboring Plegia, and recently deceased, if the gossip of townsfolk was anything to go by. But other than hair, you don’t see what ties the two of you together. Amnesia only makes the situation worse. How do you properly apologize for something that you can't remember?

Your confusion is only worsened that night, petrified in front of Chrom’s tent as the voice of your mother cracks and crumbles under his own. You can only comprehend a little of what they’re saying, their voices distorted by the hysteria, but any fool can tell that it’s serious.

“...his hair…”

“But I killed him…! Do you honestly think I’d…”

“The hair, the markings, the crest…”

“How do you know about the…”

“Better question...why did you hide the…”

Your hair is rumbled in the wind, but you stand your ground. This conversation is welling up an emotion in your chest you’ve been trying your damndest to ignore. After all, you’re Morgan. Nothing saddens you but for missing a meal and the opportunity for a good pun. 

“I would never…”

“But you have...”

In any other situation, your bubbly attitude would have earned you the respect of your post apocalyptic peers rather than their fears. 

“It’s too convenient…”

“I would never, ever…”

Why won’t anyone tell you what you are? They whisper it freely in the privacy of their own tents, but dare not move a lip around you. What could you have possibly done to them in the time that you’ve arrived? 

“Robin!”

“Chrom!”

You finger the markings around your wrist, which mother has hidden with an especially long mage’s robe. Even she refuses to speak a word of truth. 

Your eyes are only broken from the strange red branding when your mother barrels out of the tent, eyes filled with tears. She spots you almost immediately, nothing escaping her trained eye. She is not mad. Instead, she flings her arms around you and begins to sob, drawing you closer with every tear. Chrom has not left his tent, but something tells you that he is watching. 

You dare not move from your mother’s grasp.

**Author's Note:**

> please save my trash son


End file.
